


crack the spine, let me in

by sarapod (four_right_chords)



Category: God's Own Country (2017)
Genre: M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 11:50:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/four_right_chords/pseuds/sarapod
Summary: Gheorghe likes to read. Johnny wants to do this right.





	crack the spine, let me in

Gheorghe likes to read.

It was something that surprised Johnny when he realized it. He’d never known anyone who was anything like him and liked to read. He didn’t, himself - the words were unpredictable, wandering all over the page and rearranging themselves of their own accord. It had made school harder than it probably should have been and he’d left as soon as he could without getting his da in trouble. But Gheorghe clearly doesn’t have that problem. He doesn’t read quickly but he does read steadily, a few pages every night before bed and here and there throughout the day. It’s one of the million things Johnny loves about him.

At this moment, however, the primary feeling Johnny has towards Gheorghe’s love of reading is resentment. If Gheorghe didn’t love reading, Johnny wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a bookshop in downtown Keighley, overwhelmed and confused and full of the useless anger that comes before all his worst decisions. It’s just - Gheorghe’s birthday is next week. Gheorghe hadn’t actually told him, Johnny had seen it when Gheorghe asked for his help with his visa application. (It’s not that Johnny _can’t_ read, right, he’s not an idiot. He can manage just fine with the bills and paperwork necessary to keep the farm going.) Now that he knows, he was thinking - a present. And Gheorghe likes to read. But Johnny hadn’t anticipated this, walls of books in every direction and no idea of where to start. His stomach flips.

He is seriously considering binning the entire idea, when - “Sir?” He whips around on instinct and is more than slightly embarrassed to realize he’s just wheeled on a girl who can’t be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. She has a pink mohawk and a row of tiny hoops going up each ear, and where her name should be on her nametag there’s a smiley face sticker in rainbow colors. Also, her hands are held out in front of her in the universal gesture of ‘whoa there.’ “Just wondering if you needed any help,” she says to Johnny in the same tone he uses with startled animals. “You looked a little confused.”

“I,” Johnny says, then stops, flustered by her response. It pisses him off - he’s not scared, he doesn’t need someone to gentle him - but. (“I don’t want to be a fuck-up anymore,” he remembers. A fuck-up would yell at her. He’s not a fuck-up anymore, he’s not, he’s _not._ ) He pauses, collects himself, and says, “I need a book.”

“You’re in luck then,” Bookshop Girl says. “We sell those.” She sounds American. She smiles. “What kind of book were you thinking of?”

“My - ” Johnny stops again, realizing he doesn’t even know where to start with what to call Gheorghe. He hasn’t actually had to call him anything before. They never needed to talk about it; they belong to each other, that’s all that matters. But you can’t work that into a sentence. He discards ‘boyfriend’ as quickly as he thinks of it and plows on. “Anyway, he likes to read, and. I thought.” He rub the back of his neck, staring at the floor. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“What kind of books does your friend like?” Bookshop Girl asks. Her tone has softened a bit.

And okay, it’s not like Johnny doesn’t know there are different kinds of books. He may not read, but he’s not an idiot. The thing is, he just doesn’t actually know what kinds of books Gheorghe reads. A lot of them are in Romanian.

He feels that old rage rising again and stuffs it back down as hard as he can. He can’t - he won’t - this is for Gheorghe, who is the most important person in the world, who he rode a coach across national boundaries to find. Gheorghe, who he lets kiss him where people can see them. He closes his eyes briefly, steels himself, and says, knowing Bookshop Girl is going to judge him - she’s probably a university student, already wondering what some filthy farmer is doing putting his dirty boots on her clean floors - he says, “What kinds of books are there?”

Johnny’s ready for Bookshop Girl’s face to close up, for her to be disgusted with him. Instead she says, in an even gentler tone than before, “There’s every kind of book you can imagine, hon. If someone’s thought of it, someone else has written it down. What’s your friend interested in? We’ll start there.”

Johnny is at a loss for words. He’d been ready for a fight but that’s clearly not going to happen, and what comes out of his mouth is, “We’re farmers. He’s Romanian.” He bites his lip, mortified at himself, and stares at the ground.

“So probably not that new History of Romania I’ve had my eye on,” Bookshop Girl says, a laugh in her voice. When Johnny chances a glance up at her, the look on her face is kind, and she winks at him. Johnny loves Bookshop Girl. He would marry her if it wasn’t for the stupid git who’s the entire reason he’s here. “You said you’re farmers?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says. “Sheep farmers.”

Bookshop Girl starts walking with purpose. He follows. “A lot of people like seeing themselves in books,” she says over her shoulder. “Have you heard of James Herriot?” Johnny shrugs - the name rings a bell, but not in any way he can make sense of - and Bookshop Girl continues. “He wasn’t a farmer, but he was a vet in Yorkshire for a long time, and he wrote books about his experience. They made a BBC series about him.” She selects a small book from the shelf and presses it into Johnny’s hands. “Maybe start with this one, and if he likes it, there’s plenty more.”

Johnny lets her lead him to the till, where he pays, and then to a wrapping station, where she wraps the book for him in shiny paper with some curly ribbon. As she’s putting it in the bag, she says, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Johnny,” he answers. He tries to make his voice sound at least a little friendly.

“I’m Eve,” Bookshop Girl says. She hands him the bag. “I really hope your friend enjoys the book, Johnny,” she says. “Maybe you could read it together? My girlfriend is from here originally, and we’ve really enjoyed reading Herriot together.” She gives Johnny a mischievous smile and steps out from behind the wrapping station to continue whatever she was doing before he fell into her lap. “Have a great day, okay?” she says, walking off.

Johnny has to stop and get his bearings after that.

He shakes it off after a second of standing there like an idiot with his mouth open, but he can’t stop thinking about it on the drive home. Eve and her girlfriend, reading together.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up the morning of Gheorghe’s birthday ahead of the alarm, sick feeling already in his stomach. This was an awful idea. What if Gheorghe’s mad at him? What if he didn’t tell him his birthday for a reason? And Johnny got him a _book?_ A fucking _book_ to show Gheorghe what he means to him? It’s stupid. It’s insulting. He’s an idiot, he’s an idiot and Gheorghe’s going to leave again -

“I can hear you thinking,” comes from Gheorghe’s side of the bed.

Fuck.

Gheorghe drops an arm across Johnny’s waist and pulls him in, even though there’s no closer they can get in Johnny’s twin bed. “The fuck are you thinking about?” he mumbles into Johnny’s spine, voice morning-rough. “Too early for thinking.”

There’s nothing for it. Johnny leans over, opens his dresser, and pulls out the book. He sits up, back against the headboard, and hands it to Gheorghe. “Here,” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at his knees.

Gheorghe stills, then pushes himself onto one elbow. “What’s this?” he asks, sounding confused.

Johnny’s blushing so hard he can feel it. “For your birthday, like,” he mutters to the blankets. “Saw the date on your papers, thought …. don’t know what I fucking thought. Doesn’t matter anyway, you don’t have to open it - ”

“Shut up,” Gheorghe says, hand coming up to cup Johnny’s cheek briefly. He can’t help leaning into it, startles when the hand pulls away and he hears the tearing of paper.

Gheorghe pulls the ribbon off, drops it and the paper over the side of the bed. “Her-i-ot?” he says, sounding out the name. “You like this book?”

“Never read it,” Johnny says, and he’s nearly whispering. This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him. “You know I don’t … anyway, girl in the shop recommended it. Said he was a vet in Yorkshire. Said …. she said people like to see themselves in books. And you, with the animals …” He stops, breathes, curls a little bit more into himself. “Anyway, you don’t need to - ”

“John.” Gheorghe’s hand is on his cheek again, turning Johnny to look at him. Johnny could resist. He doesn’t.

Gheorghe is smiling.

“I love my book,” he says quietly. He leans up and kisses Johnny - forehead, temple, lips. “I love that you got it for me.” He kisses down Johnny’s neck to the base of his throat. By the time he gets there Johnny has uncurled enough for Gheorghe to rest his head on Johnny’s chest, Johnny’s arm around his waist. He opens the book, starts leafing through the pages.

Johnny feels wrung out, but there’s one more thing he wants to say. Fucking unfortunately it’s the hardest bit. He swallows, grabs hold of his courage with both hands, and says, “The. the girl at the shop. She mentioned that she and her girlfriend, they’d.” He has to close his eyes for a second; he can’t look at any part of Gheorghe while he says this. “She said her girlfriend was from here and they’d read it together. She said. she said she liked that.” There. It’s out. Johnny sags back against the pillows, eyes closed.

He feels Gheorghe shift, then feels lips at the base of his throat again. Gheorghe retraces the path he took last time, ending with a kiss to Johnny’s forehead. Johnny opens his eyes to see Gheorghe looking at him steadily, fingers stroking back and forth through the short hair on the side of Johnny’s head.

Gheorghe smiles then. Whispers, “Freak.” His fingers are still in Johnny’s hair, gentling. Soothing.

Johnny grins in spite of himself. “Faggot,” he whispers back.

Gheorghe rests his forehead against Johnny’s, hand slipping around to the back of his skull. “Faggot,” he responds, kissing Johnny to seal it.

He sits up then, pulls Johnny into his chest. He picks up the book. He places his finger under the first line on the first page. And quietly but clearly, he starts to read.


End file.
